RENÉ JOUVEAU, in Cuisine Provençale de Tradition Populaire, a delightful collection of recipes, folklore, and foodways, quotes the old Provençal saying about the region’s best-known soup: “L’aïgo boulido sauvo la vido,” to which one responds with proper irony, “Au bout d’un tèms, tuio li gent.” Aïgo boulido, Jouveau says, is nothing more or less than boiled water,¹ flavored with sage and garlic and poured over a crust of toasted bread that has been drizzled with olive oil. Boiled water saves lives, the saying goes; and the response: And after a time, it kills people off.

Savory it may be, but aïgo boulido is not very substantial, especially on a daily basis. Yet in its very meagerness it is typical of the make-do diets of poor country folk all around the Mediterranean. (Poor on a seasonal schedule, that is, for the same country folk may well become veritable gluttons at times of the year like Christmas and Easter, when more substantial fare is available.) Italian acquacotta (cooked water) is a similar preparation, and in Spain sopa de pan, by stressing the bread (pan), only emphasizes the soup’s niggardly, penurious, parsimonious nature. The ingredients change from one place to another, but the principle remains the same: making do.

We made do one year in Seville. We were there for the Feria, the great post-Easter fair, and to see the great matador Ordóñez, who had come out of retirement once more, as he did periodically, to prove that he was still the star, if the aging star, of the corrida. The Feria is usually the second week after Easter, a time of nearly explosive joy like a richly earned reward for the penance of Semana Santa, Holy Week, which the Sevillanos take very, very seriously. Decked in fragrant orange blossoms, the city is at its loveliest, and the ladies respond, young and old alike, dressing up in the flounce-tiered costumes of flamenco dancers with flowers tucked in their hair. Riding arrogantly behind their menfolk, they parade on handsomely groomed horses, and at night they dance the sevillana to the music of guitars.

It was romantic and prodigal, but places to stay were hard to come by. We ended up in an illegal bunk on the roof of a boardinghouse kept by a slovenly woman whose breath smelled of the candied violets she sucked between her teeth all day. We reeled about the city, drunk with the scent of orange blossoms, going from casita to casita visiting these terribly proper but warm and welcoming Sevillanos in the hospitality tents they had set up. We drank chilled fino sherry and nibbled freshly fried almonds and little pinchitos, miniature savory kebabs of pork or veal. At precisely five in the afternoon (“a las cinco en punto de la tarde,” we said, quoting Lorca) we went to the bullfights and then, much later, home to the woman who smelled of violets and who gave us, as part of the demi-pension for which we had paid royally, sopa de pan, crusts of bread over which garlic-flavored water was poured and to which was added, at table, by the señora herself to prevent excess, a thin drizzle of a peculiarly rancid olive oil that we suspected had been used to fry the fish at lunch.

I will spare you the recipe for this meager soup, which exists, in one form or another, all over the Mediterranean. But good cooks should keep in mind the kinds of simple enrichments that are often added to such skimpy fare to dress it up a bit and make it more appealing. Garnishes and additions such as these can make something very special out of anything from a humble minestrone or bean soup to a clear chicken or veal stock, perhaps with a handful of rice or a few sherds of pasta floating in it. Such garnishes could include some, but never all, of the following:

• A thick slice of country-style bread, toasted, rubbed with a freshly cut clove of garlic, dribbled with flavorful extra-virgin olive oil, and set in the bottom of each soup plate (especially good with beans and thick vegetable soups);
• A handful of grated cheese—parmigiano reggiano, an aged sheep’s milk cheese, or even a well-aged non-Mediterranean cheddar—sprinkled over the top of the soup at the moment of serving (this is very effective with clear chicken or veal broths);
• A big dollop of plain yogurt, nonfat or low-fat if you prefer (a nice fillip for almost any meat- or chicken-based soup);
• A swirl of your best extra-virgin olive oil spooned over the top of the soup, again at the moment of serving (de rigueur with almost anything);
• A couple of handfuls of the dried yogurt and grain mixture called kishk in Lebanon and tarhana or trahana in Greece and Turkey—available in shops in Greek and Middle Eastern neighborhoods (cooked in stock for 10 to 15 minutes, it turns any clear broth into a hearty potion);
• An egg—one per serving—either poached in the soup itself or beaten in a separate bowl, some of the hot liquid slowly beaten into the eggs, and then the eggs returned to the soup—which must not, from this point, come to a boil lest the eggs scramble, but which can be stirred gently over very low heat until the eggs thicken the broth slightly.

Not every one of these is appropriate for every kind of soup—you will have to use your own good judgment for that. But any one of them can help turn a humble country soup into an occasion.

Do keep in mind that soup can be an important building block in a healthy diet, an easy way to get more of those all-important vegetables and legumes onto your plate. Simple broths or vegetable purees, enriched with one or two of the garnishes I mentioned, are great starters for a meal, while a robust bean or seafood stew can make a meal on its own.

The recipes in this chapter are for what I think of as basic Mediterranean soups, made of seafood or vegetables or beans (sometimes with a little meat added), and they’re found, in one form or another, throughout the region. The ingredients may change from north to south, east to west, but the principle remains the same. Think of the recipes as theme and variation.

I’ve also given directions for three basic stocks that are useful to have on hand and far superior to canned stocks or broths. All too often the commercial offerings, even when touted as “natural” “organic,” and so forth, have unpleasantly sweet/salty flavors that detract considerably from the fresh taste of a well-made soup. I do keep a little supply of commercial stocks on hand for emergencies but homemade stock or broth, prepared with a fresh, local, free-range chicken and a tasty handful of aromatic vegetables—leeks, carrots, parsley, and so forth—adds so much to anything in which it’s used that it’s worth putting a little time and effort into the making of it. And fortunately, that’s not at all difficult. Stocks freeze well, and there’s added pleasure in knowing you have a freezer full of flavorful bases for all manner of soups, stews, and sauces. I like to freeze stocks in half-cup, cup, and pint containers, so I have convenient supplies for many different uses. But if you must thaw, say, a pint in order to use only half a cup, simply bring any remaining stock to a rapid boil for a minute or two and then refreeze.

¹ I had always assumed, as many people do, that digo means “garlic.” It doesn’t. It means “water.”